You said it was a paper cut.
Well that paper cut turned into a paper gash,
That one paper gash turned into millions,
They’re not just paper cuts anymore.

Like soldiers lined up, ready for battle,
Each one telling its own sob story,
Relating its own excruciating experience,
Reliving its own miserable memory.

It’s easy to hide these soldiers.
They’re well trained in discretion,
Concealed behind the cuffs of sweaters,
Camouflaged by scarves.

The soldiers stand tall, a band of brothers,
Prepared to fight against another such army,
An army of friends and family,
Of school psychologists, guidance counselors, and doctors.

But as of now, they have already won this war.

I’m not exactly keeping track of them.
But I know they are only multiplying.
The wounds have no time to heal,
Before they are broken open once more.

I used to wonder,
How can a person so poised and perfect
Feel so unworthy?
But I suppose even the swan has its insecurities.

And if the most beautiful swan in the flock has its insecurities,
Then what about the ugly duckling?